


It's all in a name - a 5+1fic

by Linnet



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Post-Skyfall, Secret Intelligence Service | MI6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-21
Updated: 2013-06-21
Packaged: 2017-12-15 16:48:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/851789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linnet/pseuds/Linnet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times 007 calls his Quartermaster 'Q', and one occasion when he uses Q's real name.</p>
<p>Beta-d by the wonderful <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/Iriya/profile">Iriya</a>, who has, once again, done a phenomenal job. I can't thank you enough!</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's all in a name - a 5+1fic

**Author's Note:**

> I'd forgotten I'd written this - It's been hanging about in my Evernote account for months, ever since I first watched Skyfall! I thought I'd publish it, seeing as I actually quite like it. I was testing out some new styles and techniques, so it's a little bit odd in that respect, but I hope you enjoy it!  
> I may or may not be trying to make up for still not updating the next chapter of my multi-chapter Sherlock fic... sorry! Chapter fourteen is nearly finished! I've been a lot busier than I thought I would be even though my Hiatus is technically over.  
> 

**1.**

 

It is almost three months after Silva when 007 and Q meet again in person.

“The Science Museum?” Bond says as he sits down, already smirking. Q flashes him a little grin in return, but quickly flicks over to business mode.

“Ah, Bond. Here, your new radio and a new Walther, coded to your palm again. Try not to let a komodo dragon eat this one, will you? They’re rather expensive. There’s this too; a small GPS tracker, virtually undetectable. You’ll always know your position, even if there’s apparently no transmission signal. I’m afraid it doesn’t allow vocal or data contact of any kind, we’re still working on that, but it could be done in time for your next mission. It’s technically a prototype – bring it back. Nothing else, I’m afraid, you’re not trusted with more expensive pieces of equipment.”

“Really, why?”

“You keep breaking them.”

“I meant,” Bond sighs “Why here, of all places?”

“The London Museum and Library of Science. I thought you might enjoy the view here more than the paintings. You’re not exactly the most cultured individual, are you?”

“I tend to find my attention is distracted.”

“Don’t forget the Walther, and report to medical before you leave.”

 

Bond has gone straight back to active duty after the funeral, which he had not attended, and into deep cover.

“We’re tracking your current co-ordinates programmed into your GPS, Bond. Untraceable.”

“I didn’t realise it would be internal. You could have warned me.”

“Well, I did tell you to go to medical. It’s not my fault if you didn’t listen to me.”

“You didn’t tell me the bloody thing wouldn’t work until it registered a constant pulse. I had to install it myself!”

“Not my problem. You should listen to orders. Now, you will be attaining ‘deep cover’ status in less than ten minutes. Do you have any questions as to how it is activated and operated?”

“None.”

“Good. 007.”

The transmitter goes silent. They lose Bond for a dangerous amount of time, but the tracker never activates, so nobody worries. Q neglected to tell Bond that if his heartbeat stops, the tracker will send a unique type of signal to HQ. It was a calculated omission.

 

Infiltrating a terrorist organisation is never the easiest of tasks, but these are more technologically advanced than most, so there is to be no electronic contact, much to both Q and M's chagrin. Q hates not being able to monitor a mission, and M hates to have 007 where he can’t control him - not that he can anyway. However, it has taken too long to get this far. They can't risk losing this now. So 007 goes in on his own. 

“Quartermaster, any news?”

“No, sir. There are no new assignments since my last report, and I sent you a memo detailing the events of the Cairo incident. The prime minister sends his congratulations. 002 has since resumed training, sir.”

“Nothing from 007?”

“No, sir.”

“Thank you, Q.”

 

A month later, when Q receives a small note - in the post, of all things - he half expects it to be a letter from his mother or something. He did not expect a request for information and backup support from one 007, written in carefully slanting handwriting and concealed in a code that was depressingly simple to disguise in a normal letter, and comfortingly impossible to crack if you weren't a Q-branch employee or a double-oh agent. He prides himself on its development; his intelligence is not just channelled through computers.

“Sir, I’ve had contact. 007.”

“What does he want?”

“Backup, sir. I took the liberty of drawing up a list of operation standard agents.”

“Which double-oh is fittest for active service?”

“006. Alec Trevelyan. Pass marks on everything except psychological evaluation.”

“Well, I’d be more worried if he’d passed that than if he’d failed all the others combined. Alright, sort him out and send him on it. God knows he and Bond work well together, though I wouldn’t hold out too much hope for your coveted equipment, quartermaster.”

“May I request a departmental budget raise, sir?”

“Get on with it, Q.”

“Sir.”

 

Nevertheless, knowing Bond would rather kill than swallow his pride and request help, Q reacts instantly. He provides 006 with one of the quickest briefing and equippings in MI6 history and sends him out after 007.

“006. Co-ordinates preprogrammed into your department issued phone. You will be met by a Land Rover, no driver. Memorise the route, you will lose signal ten miles before you reach the compound. They have a signal blocker.”

“You haven’t hacked it yet?”

“We don’t want to arouse their suspicions. It is possible, but I have been restrained.” The look on his face is priceless, 006 thinks. “M says that the risk factor is too high.”

“Right. So you’re sending me in after a fellow agent who’s been missing for a month without any prior knowledge of the situation or access to assistance should I need it?”

“He's not dead. Now, these are the files detailing your cover story, your identity, and any knowledge we have been able to gain about the organisation and its members. They will be wiped in two hours time. No trace of them will remain. There is a support team in the nearest town, but that is hundreds of kilometres away. Your radio can be used to contact them. Your gun is not palm-coded, but it has an infrared sight, should you need it.”

“How did you get a sight on a pistol?”

“With difficulty. It is mediocre at best, but adjusted to suit shooting from arm’s-length, and fitted exactly to your visual requirements. You will have no difficulty using it.”

“Right. You know, I’ve never had a briefing in Q-branch before.”

“It’s necessary.”

“What’s he done this time?”

“He didn’t specify. I’m afraid that’s the main reason this is being done so quickly.”

“When am I going?”

“Your flight leaves in two hours. Your tickets.” Trevelyan takes everything the Quartermaster gives him, and with a quick nod and a cursory smile, he leaves. Ten hours later, he lands on foreign soil, and just five minutes after that, Q loses him. He should probably be worried that 006 managed ten miles in two minutes, but he personally modified the car. MI6 have yet to tell the world that Q designed a Land Rover engine that can go at nearly 500 km/h. The bother with the wear on the tyres really wasn’t worth the effort until now.

 

It is two nerve-wracking, silent months before Bond and Trevelyan emerge victorious, the cell in tatters in their wake. The debrief is a joke, to nobody’s surprise.

“Did we, Alec?”

“I’m not sure I remember doing that, James. It could have got caught in the explosion, I suppose…”

“Entirely possible, then. It was quite a big explosion.”

“Completely plausible. All the explosions were on a rather impressive scale, I think.”

“Well, yes. They would hardly have been controlled, would they?”

“In which case, it’d probably be more surprising if it  _had_  survived.”

“Oh, don’t worry; I think we took care of that.”

M looks like swearing at both of them, and only just keeps his cool. As they leave, Q is almost sure he hears him muttering something about forceful retirement, but decides not to mention it to either agent. They are mentally unstable enough as it is already.

 

Q takes care to erase all evidence of the mission. Not a single trace remains. He prides himself on both his integrity and capability.

“I thought we’d had a bit of trouble with a goat herder who’d seen the explosion from about 50 kilometres away, Q.”

“Really, Moneypenny? I’m afraid you must be mistaken. There’s no such account to be found anywhere.”

“I’d noticed.”

 

When both agents have been harangued to what they appear to have decided is a suitable degree, they return their equipment to him. Or, in Bond's case, what is left of it.

“You said to bring it back, not that it had to be in one piece.”

“I didn’t mean I wanted my  _very expensiv_ e prototype to be a little pile of burnt components sitting on my desk, 007.”

“Well, I brought my Walther too.” He produces it from his pocket. Q stares at it disbelievingly for a good ten seconds before he manages to form words that do nothing to summarise the shock he is going through.

“…you melted it. It’s supposed to be fireproof - we tested it up to 1900°C, and you  _melted_  it.”

“Well, I don’t know. I bring you presents and all you can do is whine about them. It’s supposed to be the thought that counts, isn’t it?” Q wants to put his head on his desk, but decides it would be unprofessional.

“I’m sending you the bill for this.”

“By all means, do so. I will take great pleasure in burning that too.” He holds out the charred remains of the gun.

Q sighs as he takes it, and absent-mindedly taps the end of the half-melted Walther on the edge of his desk as he turns to begin filling out the forms - in triplicate. He tries not to be at all surprised when it implodes in his hand. At least it gets him out of doing paperwork.

 

Bond visits again on his own, almost a week later, with a sheepish smirk and eyes which wander repeatedly to the bandage wrapped carefully around the quartermaster's left hand. The desk isn't really in a much better state.

"What are you here for, 007?" Q asks, not a single clue to any grudge in his voice. James nods his head slightly.

"My apologies, Q," he says, and saunters out.

Q stares after him, surprised. James has only acknowledged his rank or title once before - that he can remember (and he has an eidetic memory). 

 

**2.**

 

The next time 007 goes out in the field, Q is the voice in his ear. He expects it to be like their first mission, when he gave James what he needed when he demanded it, and goes a little extra because, let's face it, it is 007 doing the asking. Demanding.

“Where is he?”

“Is that all?”

“What is going on?”

“Why does this not work?”

“Why am I doing this again?”

“Sort this out for me.”

“Get the results by Friday.”

“You should be done by now.”

“Get that for me.”

“Tell M I’m busy.”

“Tell Eve I’m Busy.”

“Tell Tanner I’m Busy.”

Or on one particularly memorable occasion;

“Didn’t you get my message? It said ‘Q needs to talk to you, please come down to Q-branch’.”

“Tell him that I’m busy.”

“I  _am_  Q.”

“In that case - I’m busy. The door is over there. Goodbye.”

 

Anyway, it is not. In fact, it is nothing like it. For the whole journey, he talks to James, not 007, and they get on well enough. Even if most of their conversations revolve around things like the lack of exploding pens that Q-branch is creating, it is by no means unpleasant.

“No. Not going to happen.”

“It’s not too hard to set up, I shouldn’t think. The ink cartridge could be full of gunpowder or petrol instead of ink.”

“And how do you suggest triggering the explosion?”

“Pulling the lid off? Could create a spark."

“What if it got knocked off in your pocket?”

“Ouch. Have the lid locked on and palm-coded.”

“How big is this pen going to be, 007? I thought the whole point was that it was to be inconspicuous.”

“Fingerprint-coded then.”

“So when you manually pull the cap off and it explodes then and there, taking you with it.”

“I doubt the explosion would be that strong.”

“It would have to be; otherwise it wouldn’t do enough damage to be of any use.”

“Can you do that?”

“Of course. It’s pathetically easy, when you know how.”

“Time delay then.”

The debate goes on for some time.

 

Q finds the conversation - banter - with the agent surprisingly constructive, even when there is an… incident.

“Oh, for God’s sake, look, are you completely incompetent…” The intern standing in front of his desk actually physically winces at the insult. “… _anti-spam_ , I mean really, how stupid can you   _be_ … this is  _primary school_  stuff… go get me some more tea, you can’t be as bad at that as you are at your bloody job… look at this mess…”

"What are you actually doing?" Bond asks when Q swears through the com shortly afterwards.

"…coding," is the terse reply, and he intends it to be off-putting. One of his interns has made a miscalculation, albeit a  _slight_  one, and it needs a  _little_  attention.

"As if I didn't have enough to deal with already," Q mutters, mutinously, forgetting momentarily that Bond is listening in.

"What's the problem?" 007 asks, conversationally, the car engine revving clear in the background.

Q spends the next twenty minutes talking his ear off whilst trying to fix the problem.

“…here, the programming shouldn’t have that code in it… ah, look, well, that’s fairly simple… it’s just a warp, because  _that_  code should be _there_ , but because it wasn’t, then  _that_  was altered  _there…”_

After that short introduction in coherent English, 007 gives up trying to understand what Q is doing. He spouts out words Bond’s never heard of before, mixed up with numbers and frequent exclamations about the stupidity of his staff, and even, at one point, a long stream of Binary muttered under his breath, punctuated by a few muttered curses and quiet ‘oh’s’ of revelation. Bond doesn’t dare interrupt. He literally has no idea what will happen if he does.

 

Surprisingly, Q completes the task much sooner than he would have expected. It is a little unnerving, but he smiles (though Bond can’t see, the timbre of Q’s voice changes just enough to be heard, even through the intercom) and thanks him.

"You should go into work as a therapist," he comments to Bond, who replies in his usual dry tone.

"I don't think I could cope with the excitement."

 Apparently, he didn't understand a word of the whole continuous, disjointed monologue. 

 

Q calculates that he gets more work done whilst talking to 007 than he ever would with only his Earl Grey and keyboard for company. The revelation should probably be disturbing, but honestly, Q doesn't mind. He tells Bond as much, open and honest as ever – it is the only part of his training that he didn’t pass with flying colours, but seeing as he looks so harmless all the time anyway, he got away with it because nobody bothered to get close enough to ask him any questions.

“I’m not distracting?” He’s mocking him, pretending to sound disappointed. Q grins and shakes his head.

“Not at all, though I’m not sure whether it was just saying out loud what I was doing or your presence. More likely to be the former than the latter, you're not a particularly soothing presence, though I’ll credit you with the revelation.”

“I’m not sure whether to be offended by the insulting part of that or pleased by the complimentary bit.”

“'Both' is probably a healthy balance.”

 

As soon as 007 hits the ground, the banter ceases by mutual, if silent, agreement. Q doesn't mind all that much; the excitement and adrenaline is exhilarating, even more so than he remembers it. He follows the whole escapade with baited breath, and sighs with relief when Bond once again manages to pull things back from the brink, and signs off.

"Over and out, Q," he says, and Q rolls his eyes but smiles at the intercom as he takes it from his ear and sets it on the desk, because he can count on the fingers of one hand the amount of times Bond has referred to him by his codename. Their rare and brief conversations don't normally include greetings and pleasantries.

 

**3.**

Q is tapping away at his keyboard again, an oddly comforting and familiar sound through the intercom. Even in the silence, two people breathing and the tap-tap of fingers on keys is hardly loud, and far from distracting. 007 barely notices that it is there, focused as he is on the mission in hand. He has been sitting here for three hours already, tucked away in the darkest corner of an alleyway that backs onto the headquarters of yet another of the drug rings that he is constantly after these days. His neck cracks ominously tonight as he shifts to keep his balance crouched on the balls of his feet, and he winces, frustrated by his body betraying him. He  _knows_  he is getting too old for this, but that doesn't mean he has to like it. So he cracks his neck again, purposefully this time, and shuffles his feet to try and get some feeling back into his toes, the almost-silent sounds mixing with his quartermaster's incessant typing to make an odd sort of symphony that is not quite in time. He breathes slowly through his nose, watching the warm breath condense in the air in front of him, letting the ice-cold air burn his lungs and nose as he inhales again.  
The only warning he has for what happens next is the sudden intake of breath in his ear and half of his name hissed, before the door is thrown open and gunshots drown out the rest.  
He drops and rolls, just missing a bullet that whizzes over his shoulder, dangerously close to where his neck had been only moments before. Scrambling, he draws his Walther, and silently thanks Q's organisational skills for the time he has had to acclimatise his eyes to the darkness. A shadow at the compound door is wrong, so he aims to shoot, adrenaline pumping, when the light flicks on, and he is blinded by the sudden flash. He moves by instinct, throwing himself back towards his original resting place.  
He must have cried out, because Q stops trying to talk instructions at him in his ear, though James isn't sure when he started doing it, and says "007?"  
Bond doesn't get a chance to reply. Even before the next second passes, while he is still mid-fall, a second gunshot rips through the still air, and smashes into his chest. The door slams before he hits the ground, headfirst, knocked off trajectory by the shot.

It is over in less than two seconds.  
"Shit," Q says in his ear. He has been watching on his monitor, having hacked the local CCTV. "007, report status." As if he can't see exactly what's going on.  
"Hit," Bond struggles out, following up the statement by cursing under his breath. It wasn't a very good shot, and got him just below the ribs, but he knows it is where he has some pretty vital organs. 

It has gone right through. The offending bullet is lying right beside his head for goodness’ sake, lodged in a rivet it has ploughed into the concrete, burning orange-red with heat from within, mutated and flattened.

He focuses on it muzzily, trying to move his muscles, but failing miserably. All he manages is a slight twitch. It shouldn’t be there… that is the wrong angle from where the shot came from, even if his body getting in the way slowed its momentum. Unless… what could it have ricocheted off? It must have been something inside him… his ribs? Oh. Right.

The shot will kill him, but he will bleed out first - fantastic. Blood is already pooling on the floor around him, and he suspects he may have hit his head on the way down. Adding insult to injury, he thinks belatedly, his mind surprisingly clear considering the situation. Too clear, perhaps. Normally when he is shot, instinct takes over. His head now though; it is controlling him. He is not running, so he is thinking. Right.

What a bloody useless survival strategy. What happened to fight or flight? Though he is not got much fight left in him now, and flight is a technical impossibility. 

Oh wait – no, it doesn’t matter if he is going to die anyway.

This probably has something to do with fate or destiny or… something. He has been ignoring it for much of his life, it makes sense that it has caught up with him now. So, his last thoughts. What is he supposed to think of before he dies? Something romantic, probably. He doesn’t do romantic, though. He has nothing to say in that area.

Okay - something iconic? Huh, nobody is going to care anyway. Only his quartermaster on the other end of the line. Maybe they will write it in his obituary, though. That would be nice. Hopefully this M can think of something better to say about him. Even if he can't, Q can probably give him a hand. He would be amused, he thinks, if his memoirs consist of requests for exposing pens. Not that he will ever get to read it, but still. It is a nice thought that he might leave a legacy, albeit a reputable one. 

His thought processes are quite clear still, which is odd, though they seem to be fading rapidly. There is an edge of black to his vision. He wonders if he should recount his life, let it flash before his eyes, before deciding that the idea is a) too mainstream, b) not very appealing - it won't make good viewing at all, and c) potentially impossible. There is quite a few bits and pieces missing from his personal memory. He has never mourned that loss before, and he certainly won't now. There is no time, for one thing. He has probably only got a few seconds left at most. Better get on with it then. Right… Idioms? Quotes? No – He would like to go out with a bang, really, not a cliché. He is mildly disappointed there weren't more unorthodox explosions involved in his death. He always knew it was coming, but he would have preferred it to be quick and painless, preferably in the middle of doing something worthwhile like bringing down assassins. Slowly bleeding to death in a back alley lacks dignity, pizazz… He has never used that word before in his life. Well, there is a first time for everything. Dying too, in fact.

…

 It is taking quite a long time.

…

…

He wishes it didn't hurt so bloody much. 

…

It is getting harder to breathe, he notes, calmly. Interesting. 

The darkness is growing, beginning to engulf his vision. He blinks, but it makes no difference except to make him wince in pain. 

Well. Practically speaking then, he probably ought to apologise to the quartermaster for screwing up this mission before he dies. Polite.

"Q," he tries, but never manages the rest. A deep breath does little to fortify him. "Bugger," he mutters with difficulty, enjoying the sensation of the word on his tongue, and ridiculously happy that he can be snarky until the end. That might make Alec smile, at least.  _Nothing like keeping up the persona_ , he thinks, leaning his head back where it whacks harder than he intended against the concrete, finally letting the blackness overwhelm him.

Q shouts something in his ear, but Bond doesn't hear it.

  
 _‘I should probably be grateful that I’ve not had a chance to properly get to the ‘oh, God I’m actually dying’ stage of this thought proces_ s’ is actually what he thinks last. He is probably unique in that respect.

 

**4.**

 

He is awake. The darkness recedes, and he blinks in an attempt to acclimatise himself. Mental checklist.

 

Danger? Nothing immediate. Long-term status undetermined. Empty room, no cameras, just the bed he is in and some moderately clean surfaces. Not even a window. The door looks thin and is slightly ajar – he is not locked in.

 

Who? James Bond, 007. Right. It is light, he is alone - unarmed, but there seems to be nothing dangerous. He is not in any pain, though his thinking is a little slower than usual and he feels a bit lightheaded. Drugs? Or concussion?

 

Where? Terrible sheets, scratchy covers, white walls and a… Oh God, a gown. They have got him in a hospital gown. He is going to  _kill_  them. As if being subjected to the mental torture of being run after by wobbly nurses and stuffy-nosed pounces wasn't bad enough… Oh. Hospital?

There is an IV in his am. He can feel the mildly unpleasant sensation of the needle there. He must be on meds or painkillers of some kind, because he doesn't seem to be in any actual pain, and though his brain is woolly, none of his senses seem to be too greatly compromised.

 

Why? Injured, obviously, and bad to a level which warrants hospitalising, though not bad enough for constant supervision. Hmm. He wriggles his fingers experimentally, and almost immediately feels the little tug, though it is not particularly painful.  _Morphine_ , he thinks. Shifting a little experimentally confirms it. Pain in his side, feels like a deep one. Creeping his fingers towards the bandaging, he tests it carefully. It hurts. Stitching definite, maybe even surgery.

 

How? Oh, the alleyway. Typical, he can survive a hundred different types of weaponised attacks, but a little light is ultimately what defeats him. He grunts slightly, and pushes back the sense of failure. There is time for that later. God, he is getting too old for this. There might be no 'later' if today was anything to go by. Wait… Today?

 

When? He must have been out for a few hours at least, maybe even a day if they have had enough time to find him and have him patched up. It is likely they gave him some kind of anaesthetic too. Probably about a day and a half. Unlikely to be more, if Q was as efficient in getting a team to him as he normally was at everything else technology related.

 

Personal checklist complete in less than a second, James lets his head fall back onto his pillow. 

"Good evening, 007," comes a voice from the doorway, and he nearly starts before he recognises the speaker. The fact that he didn’t detect the quartermaster’s presence means that his senses are  _definitely_  compromised, but if Q’s here without escort, he is not in any immediate danger. Yet, anyway.

"Fancy seeing you here," he tells the man who is leaning casually on the door frame, messy black curls flopping over his bend forehead as he taps at his tablet, not bothering to look directly at his agent.

"Someone has to chase you halfway around the world when things go arse-up, 007," Q offers, still not sparing Bond a glance.

"I appreciate your concern," James says sarkily, and though he intends it to be a witty retort, it doesn't come out quite right. James puts it down to the drugs that are no doubt knocking points off his fitness performance as every second ticks by. Q just smirks at his tablet and keeps tapping. James desperately wants to ask where exactly he is, but he can't face the teasing look he knows he will be greeted with if he admits he can't work it out for himself. He can, obviously. In a bit. Later, maybe, when he has slept properly.

"What happened to the target?" he asks instead, strictly business. Besides, Q can hardly tease him for not knowing that.

"Mission status 'Complete'," is all the reply he gets.

"Q?" James prompts. The quartermaster keeps his eyes downturned, though his hand stills, hovering over the screen.

"The warehouse mysteriously exploded almost as soon as you were out of range." The quartermaster tells his tablet, his face entirely neutral, and resumes typing.

"Not exactly an optimal outcome," James notes. Q just shrugs.

"It got the job done."

"I assume the explosion itself was suitably spectacular?" 

For the first time since the agent woke, Q looks up and meets James' eyes, a slight smile on his face.

"Naturally." He smirks, arching his back ever so slightly as a brace to push himself off the doorframe without letting go of his tablet for a second. "Until next time, 007." 

 

**5.**

 

James reflects that one of the many things that M finds fault within him is persistently recurring. He would expect it to be his inability to follow orders, or his complete recklessness, but it is not. Rather, it's what those things amount to when combined; the highest kill rate of the whole double-oh section.

Perhaps that is why he smirks as he taps the sideboard of his bed idly with one fingernail. 

For once, it is not him who is suffering M's familiar lecture. His voice filters through the closed door, the cheap plastic offering little in the way of privacy. He sounds indignant, berating, and although his voice is carefully controlled and monotonous, that is enough of a tell all by itself.

"It was uncalled for, and you know it. I’m really not sure why I kept you on, you know. I would say you are as bad as him, but I think you are quite probably worse.”

"I resent that implication sir. The necessary information was removed with…"

"You blew up the whole bloody building, Q!" James smiles. He has watched M lose his temper all of twice since he has taken over the job - naturally both incidents were his fault, technically speaking - and it is definitely something of an achievement to be a contributor to the complete meltdown of that cool and calculating exterior, even if only in part.

"Nobody who was not involved in the drug ring was harmed. It was a controlled detonation with no…" Hmm... Credit to Q for keeping his cool.

"You deliberately acted against my orders."

"With the greatest respect, sir,” James opened his eyes. Good God, he had no idea Q was this… Arrogant? Outspoken? Bloody stupid? “Your orders were made without a full analysis of all the relevant facts.”

“Q, you were in no place to make that decision for me. You should have informed me of the 'relevant' information and I would have changed my decision.”

“No, sir, you would not have done, and the outcome would have been far less satisfactory. I took the steps that I knew had to be in order to complete the mission to the most optimal outcome. In any case, there wasn’t time.”

“Satisfactory?  _Optimal_? Kindly define those terms for me, quartermaster, because I don't think we have the same understanding of the English language."

"The mission objective was completed with the minimal amount of damage…"

"Minimal damage! A double-oh is lying in a hospital bed in the middle of a desert country full of nowhere with a liver transplant and yet another dehabilitating injury to add to the list."

"Personally, I think he was lucky, sir. Had the bullet been half an inch closer to the ribcage it would have resulted in a punctured lung. A few millimetres lower and he would have bled to death before we could get a medical team to him."

"He nearly died out there, Q." He sounded disbelieving. Q retaliated calmly. 

"But he didn't. And besides, that has little to do with my personal involvement, which was instigated afterwards. In fact, he's probably done quite well out of the deal. His liver was approaching a critical damage level due to his alcoholism and he would soon have required a transplant anyway. Oh, you needn't worry, I won't tell anyone that you had that bit of his psychological evaluation written off.

“Anyway, had he gone on the register as a sufferer of alcohol abuse, he would have been of a much lower priority, a situation that might have resulted in his premature death. That would no doubt be disappointing for him, after all the near-death experiences he has had in the field, to be cheated by death in such a manner, even if it was his own fault. As it was, he had top priority, and as a result now has a perfectly healthy, fully-functioning liver that will last him until the end if he takes good care of it, which he will no doubt neglect to do in a frivolous self-indulgent streak. He is rather prone to those when he thinks no one is looking. The result of a punishing childhood with restricted luxuries and possibly even necessities, I should think. An orphanage, most likely, possibly a boarding school a long way from home, though his trust issues were present even before he was elevated to double-oh status, so it seemed likely that there were no parental figures present as he was growing up.

“So, orphanage, from an age younger than ten, I should think. Is that where MI6 found him? Actually, that scenario seems unlikely; MI6 picked him up later in life. He was already, oh, late thirties when he was promoted. A bit old for this program, perhaps, even though it is barely more than a third of the average life expectancy in this country, but he was more than competent and no double-oh is ever expected to survive that long anyway. The fact that he did and continues to do so is beside the point.

“Now orphans, especially those brought up in harsher conditions, generally do not have such a strict moral code nor troublesome qualms about taking the life of a fellow human being. I could tell you more, but no doubt you already know about his short history as a naval commander. And before you ask, I did not hack classified files. I don't even need to read the files on the double-oh section, sir; I can read them all like open books."

There was silence for a second.

"How long have you known 007, quartermaster?" 

"Approximately, I have been aware of his existence for six months. We met after two, but the complete sum of our meeting time amounts to little over an hour, not including interaction through an intercom or any other type of electronic contact. Now, if you will excuse me, 007 will no doubt have been eavesdropping on the whole conversation. I intend to attempt to teach him some manners. Failing that, which seems the most likely outcome, I will install a door that has more substance than this one, which appears to be made of cardboard. I assume my department’s funds will stretch. Goodnight, M."

The door of his cramped little room swung open to admit the quartermaster, giving James just a glimpse of a familiar expression on M's face before it thudded back into place.

"Neat trick, that," James comments. "I can see how it would be useful."

Q snorts. "It takes far too long to learn, believe me. It's really not worth the trouble either. M will have my arse for that later."

"Doesn't he always?"

"Well, I don't want to be fired just yet, I have a few more world domination tricks to complete first."

Bond smirks, wondering yet again where the previous M found this extraordinary man.

"Ah, I see. Well, call me if you need anyone shot, won't you?"

Q nods at him, seeming to genuinely consider his offer.

"Of course. Though it's very unlikely that it will escalate that far outside my capabilities. You underestimate my skill set, 007. Not a wise move, I fear.”

He has his tablet out again. Bond wonders if it is some kind of social blocking device. Not many people are prepared to talk to someone who doesn’t appear to be giving them his full attention. Fortunately for him, Q seems to be the most efficient multitasker he has ever met.

“Perhaps that’s just as well. I can hardly shoot anyone like this, can I?”

James waves his hand in a vague gesture in the general direction of his bandages and then his heart monitor. Q stops tapping and eyes him, coolly. James gets the feeling he is being analysed.

“I would estimate your recovery time as being at least one week prior to what the doctors expect given the nature of the injury, the operation, and your age, simply because they are unaware of your history of being the most stubborn patient imaginable. You are the longest serving agent of the double-oh sector, clocking up a total of ten years or more, not an exact calculation – I’m not in possession of all the facts – but a very accurate estimation. Given the circumstances, I would calculate your life expectancy to be no longer than a few months, if you were any other agent. However, you’re not. If you then take into account your career so far and the amount of injuries you have sustained, that estimate is lowered by a considerable amount. By rights, your next mission should kill you. However, the injuries themselves have to be fully analysed, and the situations you were in when you acquired them. Given the amount of time you have cheated, escaped and even come back from death, I wouldn’t be surprised if you defy all logic and refuse to ever die. I have yet to decide whether that would be convenient or not. Probably the former, if only because despite having the highest kill per mission ratio, you are also the most successful double-oh agent to date, and I’m sure that despite all his grievances, M would be hard-pushed without you.”

James stared at Q with something akin to astonishment written across his face. To Q, Bond’s confusion is spelled out in capital letters. He sighs, moves towards the bed and sits down right on the very end. He puts his tablet carefully down on the visitor’s chair that has so far been left entirely vacant. Q has been his only visitor, and he seems to have an aversion to sitting down.

“James,” Q says, looking him straight in the eye. It is unnerving, to have the quartermaster’s undivided attention like this. His green-grey eyes seem to be looking right through James’ own, and focusing on the inside of his head. “Don’t die,” he says. Their gazes lock for a split second, long enough for Q to give a curt nod before he stands and takes up his tablet again. He is almost out the door when James speaks.

“I thought you don’t fly,” James says.

Q stops, back to him, one hand on the door handle, the other clutching the tablet to his chest. He tilts his head slightly, as if considering a reply.

“I made an exception,” he concedes, but does not move to take another step, as if he is expecting something more. James nods in acknowledgement of the statement.

"My parents were killed in a plane crash."

"Yes." It is in his file. "You were eleven."

"You were younger."

"It was a plane crash also, though my father was not a passenger, but an unfortunate civilian. It turned out to be a terrorist attack. I was five. Mother died in childbirth."

There is silence for a moment. James doesn't offer sympathy, knows it won't be appreciated, so instead he just makes sure that Q knows he understands.  

"Your letter is just a title. What is your name, quartermaster?” he asks. Q partially turns, smiling slightly.

“Nothing terribly interesting, I’m afraid. You won’t find any kind of documentation of my life, not even my existence. Technically, I  _don’t_  exist. I was never registered as being born.”

James nods in acquisition.

“My name is Bond, James Bond,” he says. “My code number is 007. A lot of people know my name. Most of them are criminals. More of them are dead. I am, after all, licensed to kill." A deep breath. "None of them know that I have a middle name. It is not in my files, it is not on my birth certificate, it is not part of MI6. Technically, it doesn’t exist.” He leans out across the bedside table to reach for the light switch. “It’s the only part of me that is entirely my own.” He turns the light off.

He doesn’t hear Q leave, but his breathing is no longer audible. James assumes that the quartermaster has gone, and closes his eyes. Within minutes, he is fast asleep.

Q times the transition. It takes exactly seven minutes for Bond’s breathing to even out. Ironic that he is so predictable in this part of his life, when he is so unpredictable in everything else he does.

Q listens for a while, and wonders how the agent can sleep like a baby when he is under the impression that he is entirely alone - and therefore entirely vulnerable.

Strange.

 

~0~

 

James wakes in the dark. Opening his eyes has no effect on his sight at all. For a moment, he starts, and then remembers where he is, and why there is no light. He forces himself to breathe calmly, cursing silently. He normally sleeps with the light off, but it is different in central London. The streetlamps and the nightlife mean that it is never actually dark. Normally, when James wakes in the dark, he is in some kind of danger. Not so this time, but he is too used to it by now.

Q listens to the change in James’ breathing pattern as the agent wakes. He doesn’t know whether to be disturbed by James’ quietness, or admiring of how quickly he apparently assessed the situation.

“I’m afraid this is rather spontaneous,” he says into the dark, and his voice ruptures the silence. He half expects James to leap out of his hospital bed and attack him, and is sort of grateful that he doesn’t. He can hold his own in a fight thanks to his MI6 training, but he would have no chance against 007. “But I’ve just this split second decided that I’m going to tell you my name.”

“Variety is the spice of life,” says James into the dark, and Q smiles, possibly because they are not making this a melancholy affair, and partly because James is not as uncultured as he thought he was, something he is going to have to investigate.

“Quite. Not that you need your life to be any more interesting.”

“Oh, I don’t know. All these explosions and gunfights, running off around the world at a moment’s notice, it can be tedious to the extreme. Such a repetitive pattern.”

“You should try computing. All the rules are written for you. The fun is in figuring out how to break them without being found out.”

James chuckles and Q is surprised by the honest merriness of the sound. He is not sure he has ever seen James smile sincerely more than once or twice, not counting his smirks and teasing glances.

“Isn’t that a motto and a half? I could live my life by that.”

“You do, as far as I’m aware.” James is still chuckling, and Q smiles with him, though it is not visible in the dark. They settle into a companiable sort of quiet.

There is silence for a few seconds, and then Q moves towards him, stands by his side. James can’t see him, but he can sense his presence, though his breathing is almost silent. He wonders if the quartermaster stayed all night, if he was here when he woke up, and he is not entirely sure that he had left when he fell asleep.

He is quiet in the dark, and James waits.

“Logan,” Q breathes, so quietly that James almost misses it. He considers it for a second. It suits Q, actually. It is nearly unique; he is not sure he has ever heard the name before, not as a Christian name. He has never met anyone quite like Q either. “It means 'Hollow',” Q offers. James nods, though in the dark, his quartermaster can’t see the movement.

“I know. It’s Gaelic.”

“I’m not sure why. I think my mother liked it for some reason, but not because of that, I found that out myself. I never got to ask her about it.”

There is a story behind there somewhere, but now isn’t the time. Whatever they are doing, building this trust – Q, Logan, will tell him when he is ready. And if he never does, then James can respect that privacy. He knows about keeping secrets.

“Andrew,” James returns.

“Your father’s name.”

“Yes.” He doesn't ask how Q knows. 

 

**+1.**

 

“You have a tattoo?” James is disbelieving. Q glances at him, amusement alight in his eyes.

“You didn’t know?” James shakes his head.

Q smirks, and lowers the gun he has been aiming so that he can lift up the edge of his  shirtsleeve properly. He had rolled them back to the elbows already to keep the cuffs out of the way of the firing, and the cardigan and tie had been lost almost immediately after that, when it became clear they would be here for a while. His glasses had been replaced by modified safety goggles, which had bemused Bond until Q started shooting some of his modified equipment instead of the regulation stuff. Then it became obvious why Q-Branch’s annual weaponry testing budget had expired in the first month of the year.

“Is that even legal?” he had asked, to which Q’s scornful reply had been

“We’re MI6. Anything I want to can be legalised if I can think of a good enough reason.”

Every day, he was finding out new things about his quartermaster which he had never have guessed from that first glance. The tattoo, for one thing.

It isn’t particularly intricate, not stylish, but simple and effective. It suggests almost nothing at first glance, a small sprig of what looks like yew, judging by the leaves and berries, split down the middle and branching off in two directions.

“Taxus Baccata,” Q supplies, which still means nothing to him. He assumes that it must be the Latin name for the species.

They move on, Bond once again settling into using his out-of-training hands for shooting. He is surprised how much of a difference being properly sober makes. As much as it irritated him at first, there was no possible way he would have recovered if he was drinking alcohol combined with the immunosuppressant drugs he was now going to be taking for the rest of his life, thanks to the transplant. 

Either way, now that he is past the withdrawal stage - which was pure hell, even with Q’s help – it is getting easier. His shooting is improving again, for one, taking his skill levels up to almost impossible heights. Last time they met, for once M didn’t look unimpressed when reading Bond his pre/post-mission and rehabilitation evaluations. If anything, he looked relieved. The thought still makes 007 a little uncomfortable. The only results they are still waiting on are the psychological evaluations, which nobody (except perhaps Q, but he has his own reasons) ever expects a double-oh to pass anyway.

He is back in business, and God, does it feel good.

He shoots another round, the bullets hitting in quick succession. Not one of them misses. He grins.

In the stall next to him, Q is pulling on his own modified ear protectors. Bond overacts ducking out of the way when he raises the gun, and Q glances sideways, smirking at the agent’s antics. Bond shrugs and raises his arms, as if to say  _'what?'_. Shaking his head, still grinning, Q turns back to the firing range.

The compact pistol goes off with far more force than should be possible for something that size. It sends Q reeling slightly, but when Bond catches him from stumbling over, instead of looking put out, he looks practically euphoric - although admittedly putting it down on the bench with far more care than he had done the last round - before he fiddled around with something in the electrics that Bond had been careful not to ask about.

The minute Q pulls his protective equipment off, he is scrabbling around on the bench, looking for components, muttering an obscure, indecipherable physics equation under his breath. James wanders over to what is left of the target, and studies it carefully.

“Can I have one of those?” he calls over his shoulder to the quartermaster, who is now engrossed in some kind of computer programming.

“Not a chance,” Q calls back, and Bond smirks.

Outside, Tanner and Eve are watching through the one-way glass usually reserved for watching exams and evals’.

“Do you think M knows?” Tanner asks, only half paying attention. He is watching as James leans over Q’s shoulder and is swatted away in good-natured irritation.

“Knows what?” Eve asks, and Tanner turns to stare at her, bemused.

“About these two, doing this!”

“What, being friends?” Eve raises an eyebrow, and Tanner sighs.

“It’s not exactly normal behaviour, for either of them. I’ve never known either of them to have any kind of real friendship before.”

“But that’s hardly a bad thing. Both of them are benefitting from it, aren’t they?”

Tanner nods, but looks doubtful. He turns back to watch the pair of them through the glass once more. James is standing poised to shoot, his hand off the trigger. Q is by his side, doing some kind of measurement. James releases the trigger, sending the bullet thudding into the very centre of his target, and Q immediately exclaims something which neither of the observers quite catches, but makes James smile at him. It is a proper smile, one that rarely graces his features, even now. It makes Eve stare a little, before she pulls herself together. Tanner is still frowning.

“They’re very different people,” he admits.

“Opposites attract,” Eve quotes, and Tanner’s eyes open a little wider. “Oh, no, not like that,” she amends. “Can you imagine either of them partaking willingly? You know both their histories.”

Tanner breathes out slowly, and nods slightly, unsure of why the implication sounded so dangerous. In the few seconds of silence that pass, his thought train derails, and he closes his eyes.

“I don’t know what I’m going to tell M,” he admits, and Eve sighs.

“Then don’t. I’ll do it.”

“What will you say?”

“That Bond's got through a life-threatening operation and a dangerous addiction simultaneously, seems to have come out of it stronger than ever, and that's pretty much all down to Q. And Bond just passed his Psych eval’ for the first time in his whole service at MI6. If M separates them now, he may as well be signing his own death warrant. Neither of them will stand for it, neither will I. I expect most of Q-branch and any of the double-oh's who've seen them together will agree.”

Tanner stares at her, completely astonished. His mind gets stuck on one thing though… Bond, pass his Psych eval? No double-oh in the history of MI6 has ever done that. 

“You’re going to lie to him as blatantly as that? He’ll never believe you.” Eve gives him a look, and suddenly Bill Tanner begins to consider the impossible. Seeing realisation begin to dawn, Eve smiles her flirty little grin, and turns to look out across the firing range again.

“Who says I’m going to lie?”

Tanner is, for once, completely speechless. A long silence passes, in which they watch as 007 and his quartermaster move around the space, assisting and teasing each other in turns, and generally enjoying each other’s company.

“Do you think  _they_  know? About each other, I mean,” he clarifies.

Eve sighs. “Well, Q has read 007’s file, I think, but only the strictly professional stuff. He respects the agents' privacy, I don't think he's read anything that doesn't apply to his work, even though he's got the clearance for it. I’m not sure about Bond. Q doesn’t actually have a file, and only M would have access to it if he did.”

“I’m sure they talk to each other,” Tanner says, unconvinced. Eve shakes her head.

“I talked to the old M about Bond. He’d known her for a long time. She’s the one who hired him, after all, and Q actually. She was probably the closest thing he had to a friend at the time, besides Alec. He never mentioned it, not until Skyfall, and that was necessity and tactical planning. Alec didn't even know what, or rather, where, Skyfall was. They are friends, but only work wise.” She sighs. “I sometimes wonder if he’s human at all.”

Tanner stares ahead, unseeing. Bond and Q are firing off another round of shots each in tandem. Their weapons look the same, but although Bond’s accuracy is better, Q’s shots are doing a lot more damage.

“I don’t know what we’re going to do with them. Emotional attachments aren’t good news. You know what happened to Bond last time…”

“Tanner, we’re not talking about this. Not here, not now.”

“I was just going to say, if one of them dies, then what will we do with the other one?”

Eve sighs. He is right, of course. There is statistically a very low chance of either of them surviving until retirement age, although admittedly Q’s are much higher.

“I don’t know. I really don’t know. My head is telling me that James should know better, but look at them. I don’t think we could have stopped them becoming friends if we tried. They’re like two sides of the same coin.” Tanner frowns.

“Except one of them is a thirty-five year old computer genius and youngest ever MI6 Quartermaster who makes exploding pens in his spare time, and the other is MI6’s most successful double-oh agent who couldn’t do a thing with a computer if he even tried, is well past retirement age and not only stubbornly refuses to die, but has actually improved his performance so we can’t legitimately fire him.” Eve decides not to comment on the fact that they don’t have a replacement for 007 lined up. They never have. She wonders if that was the old M’s doing.

“They both work for Queen and Country.”

“And break the law every day to do so.”

“So do you.”

“No. I fix the ones they break. That’s not the same at all.”

“If you say so.”

“I do." He checks his fiver-from-tescos watch that Eve detests. "Now I have an urgent meeting to chair, if you don’t mind. Goodbye, Miss Moneypenny.”

He leaves before she can respond. She shifts her weight in her heels, watching the pair of them through the glass. James is shooting again, and Q is tinkering with something on his bench. He appears to have the gun wired up to his computer. Pulling the files she is carrying close to her chest, she moves away, following Tanner out to make her promised report to Mallory.

As soon as she is gone, Q picks up the speaker end of the bug he had had installed and inspects it carefully.

“Well, that was a very interesting conversation,” he observes, and Bond nods.

“I passed my Psych Eval’.” He looks confused, rather than anything, an expression which doesn't sit well with him. Q tries not to look too smug.

“Probably a fluke. You must have run out of disturbing answers to give them by now.”

James sighs and nods, though he doesn’t look completely reassured.

“I guess I have you to thank for that, Logan.”

Q tries not to let his smile become too obvious.

“You’re welcome, James.” Bond looks up at him, his ice blue eyes shining with… something Q's not seen there very often. Amusement, or maybe even happiness. How strange.

Q thinks back to the recording of the test, and the word association football test that James abhorred.

_“Give them truthful answers,” he had said before Bond went in. The agent had frowned._

_“What for? It's a child's game that they've just used as a test because they're running out of ideas.”_

_“I know, but then they might stop bugging me to send you to counselling sessions, seeing as their direct messages mysteriously never reach you.”_

_“Why are they pestering you, of all people?” Q thinks about telling him the truth; that the rest of MI6 have just assumed that Q can talk to Bond in a way nobody else can, because they are friends._

  
_“Because you never answer your emails. I'm in charge of emails,” he says instead, and Bond smiles, but doesn’t promise anything._  

But the snippets of the recordings he had 'acquired' afterwards were very interesting.

\---

_“Home”_

_“MI6”_

_\---_

 

_“Protect”_

_“England”_

_\---_

 

_“Support”_

_“Quartermaster”_

That one had surprised him, if only because he hadn’t been expecting it. And if that hadn’t been enough to convince him that 007 had taken his words to heart...

 

_“Skyfall”_

_Silence._

_“Skyfall”_

For one moment, Q had resigned himself to the fate of the test. There was no way Bond would answer that one. The first time they had tried it, it had been an unmitigated disaster. Did they  _want_  Bond to fail? Though the silence was long and drawn out, and seemed to go on forever, he did not stand up and leave. He sat where he was, leaned back on the chair, and studied the examiner, who had asked him one last time.

_“Skyfall”_

_“Loss”_

And that, as far as Q was concerned, had been that.

 

 


End file.
